


The Navigator

by electricghoti



Series: Ashkaari Side Works [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Freedom, Gen, Minor Character Death, Qunari, Saarebas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6640834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricghoti/pseuds/electricghoti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first taste of freedom for Ashkaari Adaar's future father, Kaaras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Navigator

_Saarebas, control yourself!_

The acrid smell of charred flesh burns his nose, punctuated by the smell of ozone lingering in the air. Smoke rises from the mangled corpses around him, most unrecognizable save for oozing black blood greedily seeking the earth. Poison, he remembers. The blood is poison. His ears still ring. His mouth tastes like blood and copper. The manacles around his wrists feel as if they were made of stone, and the cracked collar around his neck weighs him down as if he were the only thing supporting the sky. He feels his knees hit the ground with a thud, dimly aware of the small crater around him. Exhausted. He shouldn’t have spent his magic that quickly. Desperation tempted him to lose control and he nearly paid the ultimate price for his slip up.

He turns his head to the side as if moving through water. His eyes can barely stay open, but he needs to see. The bodies of giants lie before him, different from the poison oozing monsters. These are gray and bronze, decorated in waves representing the Tide all Qunari are part of. From underneath the shadow of a helm a single violet eye stares at him accusingly, or perhaps fear. His Arvaarad. The holder of his leash lies dead by his own hand.  
Too drained to stay awake, his eyes close as he falls forward to the ground. As the ringing in his ears starts to fade, he manages to whisper a phrase before he blacks out completely. “Ebasit kata itwa-ost. It has ended. You have fallen.”

_Saarebas, control yourself!_

The sharp, barking order from his Arvaarad jolts him to consciousness. He pushes himself off the ground in a panic, wildly looking around for the hand that controls his leash. The violet eye staring in disgust catches his own, calming in a way that was impossible in life. Arvaarad is dead. His kith are dead. These spawn of the earth are dead. He is alive. He is alive! He doesn’t know how long he was asleep, but it was enough to restore some strength to his limbs. His magic returns, but slowly, spent enough that he rises like a bas indulging on too much drink. His legs are shaky at first, but he wills them to stay strong and still themselves. While his hands check for wounds of the body, his mind checks for wounds of the soul - for demons who may have rode his dreams back to his body, or slipping from the shadow of black ooze. He hears no other words but his own thoughts, his hands follow his orders without resistance, he feels no urge to destroy. Even the collar, cracked as it is, suppresses nothing any longer. For the first time since his magic manifested he has no leash and has no orders. 

No orders to kill. No orders to hold. No orders to control.

_A thing does not control itself - it is controlled by others. It has no purpose unless given to it by the hand that wields it._

He is no longer a Saarebas. The revelation sparks a rare feeling whose name he can’t yet identify. A core of warmth in his chest. His stomach feels like it’s tied in knots, but not in fear of retribution. A nervousness borne of the warmth, and the knowledge that he single-handedly destroyed what held him back. His hands make their way to the collar, fingers grasping the edges by his face. He has a chance to prove himself, but the binding will make it too easy for others.

_Arvaarad held my leash, but I am no thing. I am not a twisted bas burrowing from the ground._

His grip on the collar is as tight as he can manage, trying to tear it apart with all the strength he can muster. It is damaged. Perhaps enough. He plants his feet firmly and pulls at the edges, ignoring the pain on his shoulders from the edges pressing into his skin. He needs it to break. Wants it to break. He will never be coerced by a different hand holding the same leash as long as he lives. If he can tear off the collar th--  
The sound of metal shearing interrupts his thoughts. Small crackling sounds pop beneath his ears like the sound of cracking glass, heralding the collar splitting apart in his hands. 

He blinks in surprise, then jerks his head down to stare at the broken pieces of metal held in his hands. He inhales his first breath unrestricted by the weight of metal on his shoulders. His first breath of true freedom. He knows he has merely gotten used to the smell of burnt flesh, but the air smells sweeter than even the breezes of Par Vollen carrying the smell of food he has never seen.

He stands a little straighter, briefly scanning the horizon, then takes his first steps toward a new life. Par Vollen and the crumbling pieces of his collar are left behind as he heads south toward better things. His tongue tastes new words as they leave his mouth. He speaks for the first time without grunting or whispering, without the threat of retribution for even the possibility of spreading demons with mere words.

“I am in control. I will make my own purpose.”


End file.
